


'Til All Are One

by HLine



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Autobot Society is Fucked Up, I'm going to be mean y'all, M/M, So are the Decepticons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28906281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HLine/pseuds/HLine
Summary: It started with a memory that Optimus should not have had; a memory of a younger, softer Megatron. Things only spiraled from there.Crimes done in the dark can only be hidden for so long before they're brought to the light.
Relationships: Past Megatron/Orion Pax, Team as Family - Relationship
Comments: 53
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> God, why can't I stop myself.

“Now??”

How Bumblebee was able to whisper shrilly was a mystery that Prowl had a feeling he would never solve. “Not yet,” he murmured, not taking his optics off of the scene playing out below. 

The warehouse below was a sloppy set-up. Crowded with computers and wires, the cyberninja normally wouldn’t have hesitated to jump right down and attack the Decepticon down below, twice his size or no. However, this was no normal situation. 

Lying on a berth with most of those wires attached to his various medical ports, Optimus Prime didn’t move even as the Decepticon that had bot-napped him paced back and forth, staring at a monitor that Prowl couldn’t see from the angle he was at. His optics off, it was only the fact that his colours were still vibrant that reassured Prowl that they weren’t too late. And as much as Prowl wanted to jump down there and make sure that didn’t change, he didn’t dare. Everything he knew about medical ports emphasized the danger of prematurely removing a connection from just one of them; he didn’t want to even think of what removing them from all of Optimus’ ports would do. 

“He’s doing something!” Bumblebee hissed, practically vibrating beside him. 

Refocusing his optics, Prowl frowned. The Decepticon was indeed doing something; fiddling with the computer he couldn’t quite see, the ‘Con’s helicopter blades quivered, fanning out and collapsing in a nervous gesture. 

Biting the inside of his cheek, Prowl shifted, trying to get a look at whatever was on the screen that was making the ‘Con so nervous. At the angle he was at, though, he couldn’t see anything.

“Prowlllll,” Bumblebee moaned, his eyes glued to the figure of their leader.

The ‘Con seemed to make a decision. His blades stilling, he straightened and tapped a button, the sliver of screen that Prowl could see going dark. Turning, he strode over to Optimus.   
Bumblebee sucked in a vent. Prowl placed a servo on his shoulder. 

Not yet.

The Decepticon reached over and shut off the machines that the wires were attached to, and then crouched down, his hands moving over the ports in a businesslike manner as he disconnected them. 

Prowl activated his internal comms. “Now.”

Down below, too heavy to be on the roof, Bulkhead roared and slammed his wrecking ball into the warehouse wall. The Decepticon jumped and whirled, blades fanning out as he dropped the wires and raised his arm weapons. He didn’t pay any attention to the glass and cyberninja falling through the broken window. 

A mistake.

The Decepticon screamed as Prowl jammed a cutting disc into his shoulder transformation seam. Thrashing, he barely managed to dodge a swing from Bulkhead, staggering back with Prowl still clinging to him and knocking over the berth that Optimus was lying on.

“I got him!” Bumblebee had fallen with Prowl, smacking the ground and lying there dazed. At the sight of their leader falling limply to the ground, however, he had scrabbled to all fours and lunged forward, cushioning his fall with his own frame. “Oof! How much energon has the bossbot been guzzling?”

Prowl didn’t have time to reply. The Decepticon reached up and tore out the disc that he’d jammed into the seam. Perched on the ‘Con’s shoulders, he couldn’t keep from swaying as underneath his pedes the metal began to move. He just barely backflipped out of the way as the helicopter blades sliced through the air. The familiar sound of a Cybertronian transforming filled the air, followed by the CH-CH-CH of a helicopter beginning to take off, and the skylight’s remaining glass rained down on them, sparkling in the air as the Decepticon began to flee.

“That’s right, you better run!” Bumblebee shouted after the retreating figure, sounding a little strained from his position under Prime. Grunted, he managed to wriggle an arm free, shaking it at the sky. “That’s what you get, messing with Team Prime!”

Bulkhead ignored his friend’s shouting, kneeling down beside them and carefully picking Prime up, a worried expression on his faceplate. “Prime? Can you hear us?” he asked.

Prime lay limp in his arms, his optics off.

Prowl had to take a deep vent. He still had his colours, he told himself. They hadn’t lost him.

That was just about the only optimistic thing that could be said about their situation, though.

Ever since Megatron had returned and half-wrecked Detroit, Optimus had been keeping them busy. Helping rebuild the city, patrolling for signs of the Decepticons, the hours had stretched out longer and longer with every passing day until all they had the energy for at the end of their shifts was to crawl to their berths and slip into recharge. The circuit-wracking prospect of being on the same planet as the Slagmaker himself just exhausted them further. Worn out by constantly keeping an optic on the sky, it had taken them all several hours to realize that Optimus had not come back to their base at his usual time.

It had been Ratchet to realize that their Prime was late and sent them out, concerned that Optimus may have collapsed from overwork. The medic had softened slightly since the return of the Lord of the Decepticons, more openly showing his worry and softening his abrasive edge when he was truly worried.

Prowl supposed it made sense. He had actually fought in the Great War. He had actually seen what Megatron could do when he really got going.

Bumblebee had half-crawled into Bulkhead’s arms along with Prime. The two of them were looking at Prowl now, clearly seeking reassurance. 

Prowl tried to look confident. “He was most likely drugged to keep him from fighting back,” he said, trying to sound logical and calm. “Ratchet will know what to do. Bulkhead, will he fit on top of your alt-mode?”

Thankfully, neither argued with him. Indeed, they mostly seemed relieved by Prowl’s faked certainty. Prowl was able to pull out some of Optimus’ grapples as well, so he could secure their leader in place and allow them to actually move at a decent speed. 

Weaving in and out of traffic, it was a testament to their worry that none of them bothered to slow down when passing humans shouted greetings at them. Even Bumblebee, an attention-hog as the human saying went, stayed silent as they sped back to their base. 

Prowl didn’t even bother to slow down as they entered, shifting his plates around back to his root mode as he skidded across the floor. “Ratchet!”

The medic must have already been heading towards them as he whipped around the corner mere nano-kliks later. “You found him!” he shouted, smiling, only for the smile to fade as he saw their Prime’s limp form cradled in Bulkhead’s arms, his grapples dribbling loose and dragging on the ground. “What happened?” he snapped, storming forward. “Was it —”

“— A Decepticon?” Prowl finished, unable to keep a grim edge out of his voice. “Yes. Not one we recognized, though.”

“He was doing something to Optimus!” Bumblebee burst up between the two of them, standing on his pedetips. “He was jacked into his main medical port!”

Ratchet’s face, already twisted into an expression of concern, twisted further. “Follow me. Now.” His voice was frighteningly even, and Prowl didn’t even want to think about what that could mean for Optimus’ chances of waking up.

But before they could take more than a few steps — nearly drowned out by the rumble of everyone’s engines — Optimus stirred.

Immediately, they all stopped in their tracks and crowded around him. Bumblebee even clambered back onto Bulkhead’s arm, peering worriedly at his face. “Don’t crowd him, don’t crowd him!” 

Despite the situation, Prowl couldn’t keep from scoffing as he crawled up onto Bulkhead’s other arm. “You’re practically on top of him; if anyone’s crowding him it’s you.”

“Forget who’s crowding him,” Ratchet snapped, “he should be waking up in the medbay not the garage!” He wasn’t quite agile enough to join them in Bulkhead’s arms but he had grabbed the one that Bumblebee was on and was peering over the top of it, his optical ridges furrowed. 

“Nrglzpt,” Optimus said, his optics flickering and vocalizer full of static. 

“Bossbot!” Bumblebee shrilled, grasping the sides of Optimus’ face, “are you okay?? Speak to me mech!”

“Spleck,” Optimus replied, his optics flashing white. One servo snapped up and shoved Bumblebee off of him harshly and he was forcing himself up with a strained grunt onto his elbows. “Vwuh — who — ?”

Alarm sliced through Prowl at his Prime’s confusion and he was unable to stop himself from reaching out and gently touching his arm. “Optimus, it’s just us. It’s alright.”

“P-prowl?” Optimus’ eyes, which had been flickering unsteadily between white and their normal blue, slowed down and settled. Reaching up, he pinched his nasal ridge. “I — sorry, I just —”

“You don’t need to explain,” Ratchet interrupted, his voice full of its usual gruff gentleness. “A Decepticon got the drop on you and according to this lot was fragging with your medical port. I need to check you for tampering before we do anything else.”

Optimus stiffened, his servo whipping around to clamp over the back of his neck. 

Ratchet touched his arm. “It’s all right,” he said, his voice slipping further into gentleness and further from gruffness. “Prowl and the others found you, and I know a thing or two about Decepticon hacking. The chances of something slipping past me are practically nil, so long as I actually manage to get you to the medbay.” The last part of the sentence slid back into gruffness as Ratchet shot Bulkhead a pointed look. 

The first part of the sentence seemed to settle Optimus though. He relaxed back into Bulkhead’s arms as the larger mech shuffled slightly in place, looking sheepish. “Sorry,” he mumbled, beginning to move forward again.

The inside of the medbay smelled of disinfectant like usual, making Prowl’s nose itch. Bumblebee, who had recovered from his fall as they had begun to move again, was peppering Ratchet with questions as they entered and for a change, it didn’t seem to be just to get the medic’s goat, as the humans said. The itch increased, threatening Prowl with a sneeze, but before he could another voice cut through the noise that Bumblebee and Ratchet were making.

“OPTIMUS!” Sari charged to the edge of the recharge slab, just barely stopping before she fell off. “You’re okay!”

“Sari?” Bumblebee said, breaking off from his pestering of Ratchet. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you busy with your dad’s company?” 

“Um, I always have time when one of my friends gets towed unconscious through the city!” Sari held up her small communicator, gesturing to the screen. “It’s all over Tweeter! What happened?”

“A Decepticon,” Optimus said. His servo was rubbing at one of his temples and he was grimacing. “It feels like he used my own axe on me, but Bumblebee and the others are pretty sure that he was just trying to mess with my processor. It’s fine, Ratchet’s an expert on this sort of thing.”

Despite the attempt at reassurance, Prowl could see lubricant welling up at the corners of Sari’s optics. Jumping down from Bulkhead, he crossed the room and picked the small organic up. “Come,” he said quietly, “you can see that Optimus is here, and even if Ratchet hits a problem we always have your key. Everything will be fine.”

Sari sniffled, sitting down in his palm and wiping at her face. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I just saw Optimus was missing and with Dad gone —”

Prowl’s spark clenched. Glancing around the room, he saw the same regretful expression cross the others’ faces. The loss of Professor Sumdac had been…bad for them, but it could not compare to the pain that Sari was no doubt going through. They had been trying to support her as best they could while still keeping an eye out for the Decepticons but clearly she was in need of far more than what they had been giving. 

Bumblebee slid up to Prowl’s elbow, reaching up to gently wipe some of Sari’s lubricant with a delicacy that Prowl was always surprised to see him capable of. “Hey, Sari, it’s alright,” he said. “You don’t gotta apologize for anything. If anything we should be apologizing for not finding your dad already.”

Sari shook her head. “No, no, you have to look out for more than just my dad —”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t look for him as well,” Bulkhead chimed in loyally, having placed Optimus down on the examination slab. “I know I have.”

“We all have,” Ratchet called from his place at Optimus’ side. “In fact, Bulkhead, Bumblebee, why don’t you fill her in on what we’ve found so far? Outside, I mean. It’s a bit too crowded in here right now. Prowl, you can stay; I have a few questions as to how you found this idiot.”

Prowl nodded and transferred Sari to Bumblebee’s hands. Truthfully, the girl would probably be more comfortable with the other two anyway, they were much closer than she and Prowl. 

Thankfully, none of them complained. As they left, Bumblebee did look behind him, but he didn’t say anything as Sari chattered away in his hands. 

Once the door closed behind them, Ratchet was all business. “So, you said that your helm hurts? Any place in particular?” he asked Optimus.

Optimus had lain down completely as they had dealt with Sari and offlined his optics. He onlined just one now, looking up at Ratchet. “Hrm, maybe around my medical port? It’s pretty steady all around though; the last time I felt this bad was the first time some friends got me overcharged.” 

Ratchet grunted. “Not surprising, that one always especially sensitive. It would be best to go through there as well, though. Does it feel like it’s up to it or would you prefer me going through one of your secondary ports?”

Optimus squirmed a little as he rolled onto his side. “I think I’ll be fine. It doesn’t feel damaged.”

Ratchet grunted again. “I’ll be the one to declare that, thank you very much. There’s a big difference between ‘good enough to use’ and ‘undamaged’.” With a soft pop and hiss, Ratchet began tugging a cable from his arm. It was considerably thinner than the one Prowl had seen the Decepticon using, the metal shinier and cleaner looking as well.

With a click, the panel covering Optimus’ medical port disengaged and Optimus shuddered. 

“Well,” Ratchet said, squinting at the port, “I’ll give the Decepticon this much — he at least knows how to use a cable. That’s a rare ability for a Decepticon to have. Fraggers usually tear them up to Pit.”

Optimus grimaced and even Prowl couldn’t keep his mouth from twisting at the thought of a torn up medical port. 

There was a click as Ratchet inserted his cable. Both him and Optimus grunted as their systems connected, but neither seemed to be in pain as Ratchet got a distant look in his optics, clearly scrolling through the information that had come flooding in. “Right,” he said, “why don’t you start then Prowl?”

Prowl obeyed, going through their hurried investigation of where their leader had gone. He couldn’t help but notice the slightly pleased look on Optimus’ faceplate as he outlined how worried they had been — perhaps he had thought that there was still tension after his behaviour while they were waiting for the Decepticons to invade?

“He just took it out?” Ratchet said, sounding suspicious. “Just decided he was done?”

“That doesn’t sound like a Decepticon,” Optimus agreed.

Prowl crossed his arms. “It appeared that he had found something, considering how quickly he was packing up. Unfortunately, I chose to concentrate on getting Prime back here rather than pursuing the Decepticon as he ran away.”

Ratchet snorted, his optics still a million miles away. “Unfortunately my ass; you were right to get Prime back here. Whatever the ‘Con was doing, it was a deep dive. It looks to me like he was picking through every bit of data in your processor!”

Prowl bit at the soft mesh inside of his intake. “My apologies then. I should have jumped in sooner. I let my fear of Prime being damaged control my judgement.”

Ratchet shook his head. “That wasn’t a criticism,” he said, dismissing Prowl’s words with a wave of a servo. “I meant what I said. You did the right thing waiting for the cords to be removed, and then you got him back to me as soon as possible. You did what you could with the information you had the time.”

“Well that’s a relief,” Optimus said, propping himself up on his elbow, “and thank you Prowl for doing so, but what does that mean for me?”

He then yelped and reached up to rub at his medical port as Ratchet unplugged from him with a sharp tug.

“It means that this is going to take a while,” Ratchet said, all business. “I’m going to have to go through your processor file by file, which in turn means that for the foreseeable future, you’re base-bound.”

“What?” Optimus fully sat up and swayed. Prowl automatically reached out, steadying him. The Prime quickly muttered a thanks before turning back to the medic. “Ratchet I need to be out there, Megatron isn’t going to wait —”

“Megatron is going to have to!” Ratchet snapped, real heat entering his tone. “Damn it, Prime, do you have any idea what that Decepticon could have done to you going that deep? I do! I’ve had to treat mechs who have been violated on every conceivable level, turned into ticking time bombs just waiting to go off! Until I’ve completely made sure that he hasn’t left a lovely little gift in your processor just waiting to kill us all the moment we let our guard down, you’re staying here!”

Optimus’ head jerked back from the vehemence in Ratchet’s voice along with Prowl’s. Ratchet, his plating risen in anger, let out a sigh and smoothed it back down. Reaching up, he rubbed at his face. 

“Look,” he said, sliding back into something approximating patience, “I’m not saying that you will never be able to go back on patrol again. I’m saying that it’s just going to be after you’ve gotten a clean bill of health, and you’ll get that faster if you cooperate with me. I know how dangerous Megatron is, we all do, but taking risks with your health isn’t the way.”

Optimus gritted his denta and ducked his head. “I know, I’m sorry. I just want to do my part.”

Ratchet grunted. “Right. Gotta be the cog in the Autobot machine.” He shook his head again. “I’m going to have to prepare a few special programs for us to get through this in less than a decacycle. For now, it’s best for you to recharge as much as you can. Nothing else seems to be wrong with you.”

“A small mercy,” Prowl said quietly. “Come on Prime, medic’s orders. I’ll help you to your room.”

Optimus let out a near-silent ex-vent. “I suppose,” he said. He smiled ruefully. “All that effort to keep from over-burdening you guys and now you’re going to have to take on extra patrols anyways.”

“The others will not complain,” Prowl said. He would make sure of it. “We are all just relieved to have you back in one piece.”

* * *

Forceps was not an important mech. Sure, he was a rare medic-class warframe, but with his self-preservation programs being as glitchedly strong as they were, he was seen as too cowardly to rise particularly high within the Decepticon hierarchy. Being hesitant to enter a raging battle, he had been forced to rely on his scientific knowledge to claw himself out of the pits of their society.

It was that that had brought him to this backwater planet. Being seen as a coward, his ideas and inventions were rarely actually looked at except to be stolen. Normally, there was nothing he could do about that; he had long exhausted the patience of those that headed up the Decepticon Science Division, and it was rare to see one of the other leaders of their revolution not surrounded by dozens of cronies. But then one solar cycle a few groons ago, he had come across some very interesting news.

He had heard the rumours of their lord’s return, but it was sheer luck that he came across a carelessly-stored datapad while cleaning a superior’s lab that had the location of the planet he was stuck on. It had been even luckier that he had managed to keep his most current project hidden from the other scientists - a project that no doubt would be of interest to Lord Megatron. When he had spotted that Autobot Prime out by himself, he hadn’t been able to resist. It couldn’t hurt to have proof that his project worked, could it?

Flying so low that the organic ‘trees’ were almost brushing his vehicle-form’s belly, Forceps had to repress a hysterical giggle. Oh yes. He had more than enough proof that the cortical psychic patch worked. 

It took his very best scanners, but he just barely was able to follow a faint radiation trail out of the city and into the forest surrounding it. Quickly pawing through the information he’d stolen from the fleshies’ information network, he saw that there were supposed to be abandoned mines out here — the perfect place for Decepticons to hide their signatures. There was one particularly large one that looked promising, and Forceps angled his rotors to head towards it. 

Soon enough, he was close enough to its entrance to drop from the air and transform back into his root form. It was a matter of kliks to find the entrance after that; all he had to do was find where the radiation was most concentrated. 

Slipping into the opening that lead to an underground complex of tunnels, the blades on his back trembled with relief. He hated being out in the open.

He didn’t have long to relax though. As he headed deeper inside he could pick up the clear signals of several members of Lord Megatron’s inner circle. The tension that had been leaking out of him abruptly returned in a wave — this was going to be a lot to explain to Megatron, and now that Forceps was getting closer the doubts were creeping up on him. Would this actually matter to him? It was a single clip, only a few astro-seconds long. It wasn’t much to go on, it wasn’t proof of some evil Autobot plot — or what if it did mean something to him? How happy would he be that dumb little Forceps saw that — 

So caught up in his thoughts, Forceps didn’t see the shadow of another, larger Decepticon creep up on him.   
“WHO ARE YOU TO APPROACH OUR LORD MEGATRON?”

Forceps couldn’t stop himself from squealing shrilly as a large servo wrapped around his blades and lifted him up off the ground. Kicking wildly he began to shout apologies. “ _I’m sorry I just needed to talk to Lord Megatron my name is Forceps and I have information for him —_ ” 

“Oh for spark’s sake —”

The deep, purring tones of Lord Megatron were not purring so much now. More like growling, really, as he emerged from the shadows leading deeper into the mine. “Lugnut, put him down. I hardly doubt an Autobot assassin is going to come through the main entrance.”

“MY APOLOGIES, LORD MEGATRON!” Lugnut, who Forceps recognized as Megatron’s most loyal lieutenant, dropped him like an empty cube. On all fours Forceps skittered across the ground, away from the enormous Decepticon and behind the still-enormous-but-less-so Megatron where he could struggle to his pedes. “I MERELY WISHED TO SPARE YOU THE EFFORT OF DISPOSING OF YET ANOTHER UNWORTHY —”

Forceps saw Megatron’s optic twitch in irritation. “Thank you, Lugnut, but it has been established that this mech is not an assassin. If you could therefore go back to watching for one, preferably outside…” He raised an optic ridge meaningfully.

“YOUR MAGNIFICENT INTELLECT NEVER FAILS TO AWE ME MY LORD! I SHALL —”

“Outside, Lugnut. Now.”

The floor shook as the enormous mech left, still chanting Megatron’s praises. Once he had turned the corner, Megatron let out a low exvent and turned to him. “I do hope that what you’ve come to tell me was worth all of that,” he said, walking past him and deeper into the mine.

Forceps stumbled after him, his spark fluttering in his chest. “Of course, my lord, I wouldn’t interrupt your recharge if I didn’t think it was something you needed to see —”

They entered a large chamber that had been carved from the rock, most likely by the organics of the planet if Forceps was to judge. There was a communication station set up at one end of it, and nearby a smaller chamber off of it that Forceps thought he could see a berth in. Set against the wall was a jutting bit of stone with a canister of oil on it, gently steaming.

Megatron picked up the canister and took a sip before crossing his arms over his chest and looking forceps up and down with unimpressed red optics.

“Well then. Make your case.”

Right! His case. Straightening, Forceps rebooted his vocal processor a few times before the words would come.

Megatron was just so intimidating! He’d never been so close to the leader of the Decepticons! The propaganda didn’t do him justice.

“Well, my lord, I arrived on this planet after hearing of your survival, desiring to speak with you regarding an invention of mine — the cortical psychic patch, it’s a modification of a medical connection cord designed to give access to the mech in question’s processor, completely bypassing —”

“Get to the point.”

Forceps had been working himself up to a good ramble, but those four words stopped him dead in his tracks. Nervously he looked down at his servos, which had begun twisting around themselves as he had spoken. “Once I arrived I happened across the Prime that defeated — fought, _fought_ , I said fought — you and thought that he would make an appropriate test subject.”

Risking a glance up, he could see that Lord Megatron’s optics had narrowed at him. He didn’t say anything, however, instead taking another sip of his oil. 

Hurriedly continuing, Forceps said “SO I took him by surprise, I’m sure you would have done it much better my lord, no doubt it was he that took you by surprise, but I managed to to start using my cortical patch on him, doing a deep dive to see if I could not bring you any useful information —”

There was a skittering sound and Forceps’ eyes darted over to the little offshoot of the mine where he’d caught a glimpse of a berth and saw one of the dominant species of organics scuttling behind a rock. He stuttered and paused mid-sentence, wondering if Megatron was aware of this.

“And? I assume you did find some useful information?”

Right! Forceps straightened again from where he had started listing to one side. “I found several petabytes of files, secreted away in various hidden parts of the Prime’s processor by firewalls and when I looked at one of the files —” His words began to fail him, and he looked at the communication displays set up against the wall. “May I use the display, my lord?”

Lord Megatron growled in irritation. “Lost your words? I’d rather not risk getting a virus in my main way of communicating with my army, thank you.”

Forceps squeezed his servos together tightly and took in and let out a deep vent. “I saw you, my lord. Not fighting the Prime or in their propaganda but —” His spark clenched at the memory of the video clip. “— but of you. A younger you.”

Risking a glance up, he saw Megatron raise an optic ridge at him. “A younger me?” he echoed. “In a Prime’s processor?” He cocked his head to one side. “Perhaps that is worth the risk of getting a virus in my comms. Was it perhaps some sort of training program?”

He was turning away as he said the last sentence, so Forceps wasn’t sure that it was addressed to him. Just in case, he gave his own assessment of the clip as he plugged into the display. “I don’t believe so my lord — it’s not a very long clip, only a few nano-kliks.” 

Megatron’s engines rumbled. “How very unlike the Autobots,” he noted idly, recrossing his arms and taking a sip of his oil. “Usually you have to rip out their vocal processors to shut them up.”

Forceps giggled nervously. “Well, I’m fairly certain it’s not meant to train anything - the general shape of the data suggest that it is in fact a memory, though why this sort of memory would be considered important by the Autobots is up for questioning —”

The display clicked on abruptly, showing the memory in glorious high definition. The stars glittered like spilled diamond dust on the black sheet. Lord Megatron’s voice emanated from the speakers, softer and gentler than it had been at any point in this conversation. And then that smile. Forceps watched it again and his spark stirred in its casing like it had the first time, painfully aware that this moment was not meant for him. 

Lord Megatron’s profile that had been staring up at the sky turned so that he was facing the recorder, his red eyes warm. _"O_ _rion. Thank you.”_

The image froze on the last frame, and Forceps turned to look at Lord Megatron. He hadn’t said anything yet, but it had only been a few nano-kliks — 

Lord Megatron was frozen where he was standing, his oil halfway to his mouth and his optics locked on the display still showing his face. 

After a long moment of silence, Forceps risked speaking. “My lord?”

“Play it again,” Megatron rasped. 

“My lord?”

_“Play it again.”_

His lord’s tone brooked no disobedience. “Yes my lord.”

Forceps put the video clip on a loop, allowing it to play over and over again as Megatron stared at the display fixedly. Shuffling back from it, he split his attention between the clip and his leader, trying to figure out what the other mech was seeing.

Clearly something important, or else he wouldn’t show such interest. But he wasn’t speaking or moving; Forceps could barely hear the hum of his systems working. He was just staring at the clip as it played over and over again, a odd mix of longing and fury on his faceplates.

Finally, just as Forceps was about ask Megatron if he was alright, the giant mech stirred. 

“This was from the little Prime, you said,” Megatron remarked, his voice flat. “Where did you find it in his processor again?”

Forceps shifted from one pede to another. “I-I would have to check sir, the underlying program mostly just does a deep dive through all of the subject’s processor — I got the idea from listening to our interrogators complaining about how the Autobots had started shifting and compressing their memory files to different parts of their program files —”

“Interesting.” His engine was rumbling lowly, in a menacing fashion that Forceps had never heard before. “You will stay here. The Decepticons will be needing your ah, ‘cortical psychic patch’ before this is all over, I think.”

“My lord?”

But Megatron was turning away. “Make yourself comfortable, Forceps, and consider that an order. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go wake Blitzwing.”


	2. Chapter 2

Optimus onlined his optics and stared at the ceiling for several long minutes, considering just going back into recharge.

He had never felt so tired. Not even after the first time his friends had gotten him overcharged and then he had to go through a whole day of training hungover. After everything that had happened yesterday, and knowing just what he had to look forward to today, snuggling back under his tarp was frighteningly tempting.

There was a crash from outside, deeper into the base, and Optimus sighed, pushing away the tempting idea. Forcing himself to sit up, he swung his legs off of the berth and rubbed his helm. It ached especially bad around the medical port, but the pain didn’t get any worse as he stood up, letting out a vent. Small mercies. 

Recharge was stubborn though, and clung to him tightly as he walked out of his room and headed to the dispenser for his morning ration. Taking the pink energon-filled cube, he took a sip before finally heading in the direction of the crash.

The others were putting furniture back in place as he entered the room, still sipping on his meal. Glancing around, he didn’t see anything broken or missing, but the guilty looks on Bulkhead and Bumblebee’s faceplates had him making a mental note to go through the room after the others went out for their patrols. 

“Optimus! Are you feeling okay? I told Bumblebee he was being too loud but then he bumped into Bulkhead —”

Optimus looked down and summoned a smile. “Good morning, Sari,” he said, ignoring the pain in his helm. “It’s fine, I’m okay. I should have gotten up earlier, anyways.”

“Um, I don’t think any of us blame you for trying to grab some extra recharge.” Bulkhead shifted from one pede to the other, tapping his servos together. “I mean, you’re going to be stuck here for the future, Ratchet’s said we aren’t allowed to let you out —”

The energon curdled in Optimus’s tanks at the reminder and he took another sip to keep his mouth from twisting. Ratchet was right, and he knew it, but he hated being cooped up at the best of times. Sure, he enjoyed the Autobot videos but even he would admit they got very old when you did nothing but watch them. 

“So, what were you doing anyways that had Bumblebee hitting Bulkhead?” he asked, interrupting Bulkhead’s stammered apologies by jumping on the first topic that came to mind. 

The others thankfully agreed with him on the need to switch topics. “Bumblebee was teaching me about Cybertronian history!” Sari said, her voice just a little too loud. “He was talking about some group of bots called the Protectobots and how they edited your guys’ history and I was talking about how that’s kind of messed up and then Bumblebee was like —”

“— Hey, they were just doing it to keep Cybertron safe,” Bumblebee said, jumping in. “I mean, they’re called the Protectobots, if there was any other way they would have done it, right? It’s in the name!”

Optimus could feel the corners of his mouth twitching. “Well, I mean, do we know if they were actually called the Protectobots or is that just what they call themselves?” he asked wryly. “There’s a big difference. And since they deleted so much data it’s not like we know what people actually thought.”

Bumblebee’s head jerked back like Optimus had hit him. “What? But, but —” he sputtered, “why would they lie about that?”

Optimus shrugged, taking a larger sip of his energon. “Well, they already seem pretty interested in controlling the narrative around them, and purging so much data — it’s not a stretch to think they came up with a name like the Protectobots to make what they were doing sound more acceptable.”

Now Bulkhead was staring at him as well. “Controlling the narrative?”

“Yeah,” Optimus said. “Controlling the narrative — history, the sort of history that governments tell mechs, it’s all a story. Things that don’t fit the idea of the heroic Protectobots get edited out, or changed, so that they do —”

“Like what?”

Optimus looked at Bumblebee. He’d never heard the younger bot sound so harsh. Almost…afraid? 

He shook his head. “Well,” he said, searching his processor, “think about the last Prime, Nova Prime? We were all taught that he was a grounder, right? If you look at earlier records and artwork, and even the warframes, it’s clear that he was actually a flier, which makes sense since the earlier records also have him patterning the warframes after himself —”

A sharp clatter distracted him. Turning his head, Optimus saw Ratchet and Prowl standing in the doorway leading back to the team quarters. Ratchet’s favourite wrench was on the ground by his feet, its ringing hanging in the air. A greeting rose on his glossa, only to shrivel as he took in the shocked and horrified expression on Ratchet’s faceplates.

“…Ratchet?” he asked. Looking back at the others, he saw similar shocked expressions on their faceplates as well. “Guys? Is something wrong?”

“Where did you hear that?” Ratchet asked, his voice verging on static.

“Hear what?” Optimus’ gaze bounced between the two groups of his team. 

Prowl’s face was stiff. “That’s not what’s taught to Autobots these days,” he said quietly. 

Optimus quirked an optical ridge at him. “Well, yeah, that’s why I was using it as an example —”

“That hasn’t been taught since before I was onlined.” Ratchet’s voice was harsh, cutting him off. “The only reason I know you’re not talking slag is because I had an old chatterbox of a mentor who used to talk about the old art of the Primes whenever he had the chance. Once you got some engex into him he wouldn’t shut up about how it disappeared overnight when the Decepticons first attacked.”

Optimus’ processor stalled. “I — what? That’s impossible, disappeared? I remember looking at them before I left to the mines last time —”

“The mines? Bossbot, you never mentioned visiting mines?” 

It was the strangest sensation in his helm; like he had been standing on solid ground, and suddenly it was disintegrating beneath his pedes. Swinging his head back towards Bumblebee, his mouth kept moving without any input from him. “Well, yeah, I was going to visit —”

It was like trying to grasp air. His brow wrinkled. “I was — I was visiting someone, I’d taken a recording of it —” he groped through his memory files, trying to find it. He could remember the particular picture of some artwork he’d wanted to show someone, it had been beautiful, but it was like he was trying to find something without using any of his sensors —

A servo hauled him to his feet and steadied the cube that had been threatening to fall to the ground. “Drink,” Ratchet ordered, his voice tight. “We’re going to the medbay and you aren’t leaving until we figure out where those ideas are coming from.”

* * *

Ratchet’s spark was threatening to escape from his mouth as he nearly shoved Optimus onto the berth. “Port open!” he snapped.

What was that? What had that been? Those words, the casual way the kid had said them like they were well-known facts — well-known facts that just so happened to contradict everything that Ratchet knew young bots were being taught these days — 

“Ratchet? What’s wrong?” 

Ratchet glanced over his shoulder and saw that Bumblebee had picked Sari up on their way here; she was cradled in his palms and staring up at him with a frightened expression, leaning forward against Bumblebee’s fingers. “Is it because of the ‘Cons? You all just started freaking out as he was talking —”

“That’s because what he was saying was dangerous.” Prowl, thankfully, took over explaining. Good, Ratchet didn’t quite feel up to doing that and trying to figure out where the Pit those words had been coming from. “If he said that sort of thing on Cybertron, he’d most likely be seeing the inside of a cell within the cycle.”

“What? All that stuff about the mines, and narratives?”

Ratchet was busy connecting the cord to Optimus’ medical port on the back of his neck but he could almost feel Prowl and the others shaking their heads.

“Nah, though, I mean, that stuff wasn’t great. It was the stuff about the Prime that would really get him trouble,” Bumblebee said, jumping into the explanation.

“The Prime? Why would that get him in trouble? And why do you sound like you’re talking about something other than the sort of Prime Optimus is?”

“Because we are.” Bulkhead audibly shifted his weight from one pede to the other. “There are two types of Prime, the type Optimus is and the historical type —”

“Could it be a plant, maybe?” Bumblebee interrupted again, this time addressing Ratchet. “Maybe they put it in his head, and thought that he’d get himself killed when he said something about it in front of the Elite Guard?” 

Ratchet was about to answer when Prowl cut in. “That’s overly complicated and no doubt difficult. Surely it would make more sense that the Decepticon would have used a more straightforward stratagem? Something to perhaps have him assassinate the rest of us, or Ultra Magnus? Or transmit Autobot information to them —”

Optimus sat up halfway from the berth, resting on his elbows, his faceplate twisting with worry. “But — wouldn’t I be able to tell if that were the case? That all felt so natural when I was speaking — like it was something I’d known for ages —”

Okay, time for Ratchet to cut off that line of thought. “These programs are meant to hard to trace,” he said, laying a servo on his shoulder and helping him back down. “It wouldn’t be unusual for you to not be able to tell if something had been inserted into your processor. I’m not one hundred percent sure why Decepticons would plant something like this into your helm but don’t you worry, I won’t stop until I find it and get it out of you.”

The worry on Optimus’ faceplates lessened but didn’t disappear. “Thank you, Ratchet, I know you won’t — it just —”

“Um, hello? Stupid little organic here, what are you guys all talking about? What’s all this about different types of Primes?” Sari nearly shouted over the words, cutting through the chatter. Looking at her, Ratchet could see that she had only gotten more upset as they spoke, to the point that lubricant was pooling at her optics and threatening to leak out again.

“…Sorry,” Bumblebee said sheepishly. If he hadn’t been using both hands to hold her, he probably would have been rubbing at the back of his head. “Um, yeah, so like Bulkhead was saying, there are two types of Primes; the type today that Bossbot is, and —”

“The historical Primes,” Prowl said, stepping in smoothly to take over. “The title of Prime was originally the title of Cybertron’s head of state and was considered to speak directly with the voice of Primus.”

“Primus?”

“Our god. The first Cybertronian and creator of all who came after.” It was well-hidden, but Ratchet could see Prowl’s discomfort. “Or at least, that’s what the scriptures say. He supposedly created the office of Prime to express his will. They ruled us for millions of years —”

Ratchet felt the need to interject. “Until the last disappeared during the final battle to push the Quintessons off of our planet, along with the trinket that supposedly chose the Primes.”

Prowl looked offended as he turned towards him. “The Matrix of Leadership —”

“Oh come on,” Ratchet snapped. “You can’t tell me you believe that slag! The Matrix was at best a data storage device —”

“It held the sparks of all the previous Primes —”

“Woah woah woah!” Sari shouted. Looking over at her, Ratchet saw that she was crossing her arms over her head in an X formation. “Back up! Remember, organic here!” Lowering her arms, she pointed at Prowl with a finger, squinting and rounding out her chin in a pout. “So you’re saying you guys were a theocracy?”

“Yes, individual mechs were chosen by —”

Ratchet scoffed, only for the finger to be snapped towards him. Sari scowled at him fiercely. “A-bup-bup-bup! Prowl is talking! You can talk when he’s done!”

The mech in question smirked at him. “Yes Ratchet. Wait until I’m done.”

The finger was turned back towards him. “Less smugging, more explaining!”

It was Ratchet’s turn to smirk at the other mech. “Yeah, less smugging, Prowl.”

Prowl just shot him a glare before turning back to Sari. “Individual mechs were chosen by the Matrix of Leadership, said to contain a shard of Primus’ very spark which allowed him to communicate with them and make his will known. The Matrix was said to connect the Prime to Cybertron itself and preserved the sparks of all of the previous Primes, allowing the current bearer to consult with them for their wisdom.”

“Or, if you want to say it without all the religious slag, it made a copy of their memory files,” Ratchet couldn’t resist adding.

“Ratchet,” Optimus said reproachfully, struggling to sit back up, “a lot of mechs still believe in this.”

Ratchet looked down at him, frowning, and forced him back down again. “They can believe all they want, Sari deserves to know the version without all the religious dross that’s cropped up over the years.” He looked over his shoulder at the girl. “Anyways, you can probably tell from what Prowl’s saying but the Primes were, and still are in a lot of ways considered holy. And as far as the official histories are concerned, no Prime ever had a pair of wings.”

Sari’s eyes flashed with understanding. “So, Optimus saying that this Nova Prime was a flier, if someone from Cybertron heard that it would be really bad?”

“Really, really, really bad,” Bulkhead said. “Nova Prime wasn’t just the last Prime, he was the Prime that lead the revolution against the Quintessons and pushed them off Cybertron for good.” He tapped his servos together nervously. “He’s like, holier than holy.” 

“Yeah,” Bumblebee agreed. “The learning programs didn’t spend a lot of time on the Primes, but they were really clear that Nova Prime was an Autobot. He may have given the go ahead to make warframes but there’s no way in the Pit he patterned them off of himself.”

Optimus groaned in frustration. “But he did! I know it, I can remember reading the words and seeing the art!”

“You think you can remember,” Ratchet said sternly. He pulled out the cables needed to connect to Optimus’ medical port for a deep dive and checked them over. “I don’t know why the Decepticons put that idea in your processor but you better believe I’m going to find out why.”

Optimus cringed.

“And you —” Ratchet turned. “You all had better not talk about this outside of the base, understand?”

“What? But we’re the only Cybertronians on the planet!” Bumblebee whined, before reconsidering. “Well, besides the Decepticons, I mean, but if they put the idea in there in the first place —”

“I'm worried about the humans!” Ratchet snapped. “Sari’s smart enough to not go spreading this around, but what if the Elite Guard shows up? It’s standard procedure to scan a planet’s frequencies! If some dumb human puts this online there’s a very short list of Autobots it could be coming from, and I don’t think they’d care all that much about throwing us all into the Stockades for blasphemy!” Turning, he grumbled under his breath, “Especially not Tyrest.”

“Who’s Tyrest?” Sari asked.

Alright, maybe not so underneath his breath. “Someone we can talk about later. In the meantime, don’t you have patrols to get to?” He shot them all an evil eye over his shoulder.

The gratifyingly scarpered at that, leaving him and Optimus alone. 

“Alright kid,” he said, turning back to him, “ready?”

Optimus grimaced. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he said, opening his medical port. “You’re good to go, though? You said you’d have to prepare a few programs.”

“Prepare, dig out of my memory files, it’s the same thing.” He blew a spot of dust off of the connector and slid it into the port gently. “Either way, get comfortable. It’s going to be a long day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, hope it's okay that this is so much shorter than the last one. It just felt like the natural place to stop.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, just a warning - there is some gore in this chapter. Bumblebee does not have a great time. Otherwise, please enjoy!

The patrol was quiet. Too quiet. 

Bumblebee felt like he was itching underneath his plating, waiting for something to happen. Something had to happen, after everything he’d heard back at the base. How could they just have a normal day of patrolling, after listening to Optimus, the guy who watched Autobot history films for fun, basically say that their entire government were a bunch of liars?

His tanks flip-flopped and it felt like there was coolant in all of his lines as he remembered the way their Prime just so casually said those things…

Pulling into the park they used as a break place for during their patrols, Bumblebee didn’t wait for the others before he shifted back into his robot mode. “He’s gotta be wrong.”

Behind him, he heard the noises of Prowl and Bulkhead shifting back into their robot-modes as well. “Wrong about what?” Prowl asked, as if he didn’t know.

“Optimus!” Bumblebee flung his servos into the air. “All that stuff about the Protectobots and the ‘narrative’, that can’t be true, right?” 

Prowl didn’t answer right away. He turned his head slightly to look at Bulkhead, who was tapping his servo-tips together, before turning back to Bumblebee. “You found me out on an asteroid,” he finally said. “Do you believe that I would have been there if I found everything the Council did palatable? I know it’s not pleasant to think about, but I don’t believe what Prime was saying was something that the Council is incapable of.”

Bumblebee struggled to get the words out. “But it can’t be true! If it is —” The words became static in his processor. 

The Autobots were the good guys. Everything they did was to protect Cybertron from the Decepticon threat. It had to be. Otherwise — 

A gentle servo was laid on his shoulder. “I know that it’s not an easy thought to have,” Prowl said gently, “for either of you. You don’t have to believe it; in fact, I’d encourage you to believe that it’s from the Decepticons messing with Prime’s head. It’ll be easier that way if any of the Elite Guard come around.”

“But it probably is true,” Bulkhead said quietly. “The way you and Ratchet reacted — it’s not just probably, you believe it is true.”

“…Yes,” Prowl admitted. “Certainly, I believe that it’s well within how the Council operates —”

“So what? We’ve been the bad guys all along?!” Bumblebee burst out. His tanks were spinning and he felt like he was about to purge. “The Decepticons — they’re right to attack us?! Because if we’re the bad ones wouldn’t that make them good —”

“No, never!” Prowl’s answer was swift. “Even if the Council manipulated history that doesn’t change what the Decepticons have done! Not just on Earth but on hundreds of planets — they’re war machines. They don’t ask nicely, they take and they kill if you resist.” His visor glowed. “I may not have fought directly but I saw the aftereffects of their actions. They are not innocents in this war. No one is.”

Bumblebee stared down at his pedes, fighting back the leak that was threatening to spring from his optics. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “I know that war’s messy. I just — I don’t know. I wanted to believe that it was just ‘Con propaganda, but the way you and Ratchet reacted —”

“You’re allowed to feel things,” Bulkhead said. “I mean, it was scary when Prime started saying that stuff. It probably would be a lot more comfortable if we could just write it off as just ‘Con propaganda.”

“Yeah,” Bumblebee agreed. Wiping at his face, he pulled away from Prowl’s servo reluctantly. “I guess. Let’s — let’s just focus on getting the rest of this patrol done.” And get back to base and see that Optimus was okay, and maybe make the world feel less like it was falling apart under his pedes. 

It was a sunny day. Somehow, that just made everything feel that much worse. Like his feelings weren’t real.

It was almost a relief when a shadow fell over them. Almost, because with it came the sound of a powerful engine.

“Guys —” Bulkhead shouted — 

But Blitzwing’s servo was already slamming into Bumblebee’s chest and dragging him into the air. The wind howled in Bumblebee’s audials, mixing with his own screams as he was ripped through the air and into the sky. Blitzwing cackled, twisting in the air until all Bumblebee could see was blue. 

“Hello, little Autobot!” he shouted over the wind, “You seem to be missing a few members!”

Bumblebee couldn’t get anything out but screams.

Blitzwing’s turbines roared, and then the servo that had been clamped around his middle was gone and he was flying flying flying through the air and smashing through glass and steel and humans were screaming and screaming louder as Blitzwing climbed into the building after them —

Bumblebee tried to roll over and scramble away. He was too slow. The servo came back, this time wrapping around his ankle.

Glass crunched as he was dragged over it, strangely loud in his audials over the humans screaming as they fled. Belatedly, he tried to wriggle out of the grip, only to be dragged off of the ground altogether. Hanging upside down, horribly aware that he already looked like he’d fallen in a multi-bot pileup next to Blitzwing’s untouched paintjob, he stared up at the Decepticon, unable to hide his fear. 

It was strange. He’d never seen Blitzwing’s Icy face smile. 

“You’re not looking too good there, little Autobot,” he crooned. “Why don’t we sit down and have a chat?”

Bumblebee steeled himself. “I - I have nothing to say to you,” he replied, unable to keep his voice from cracking. 

Blitzwing sneered. “That’s a pity,” he said. “I have plenty to say to you.”

Then Bumblebee was slamming through a wall, plaster and pieces of furniture raining down over him as he skidded across the ground. 

“To start with,” Blitzwing said, his stomps making the floor shake as Bumblebee tried to scramble to his pedes, “where is your Prime?”

“N-not telling,” Bumblebee said, tasting energon on his glossa. “Not telling —”

He shouted as he was slammed back onto the floor, Blitzwing’s servo covering his chest again. He tried to kick at the looming Decepticon, only to have a leg caught in the other massive servo.

“You’re sure about that?” There was something dark in that voice; a hatred that had never been there before in the other mech’s optics as he looked down at Bumblebee. “Absolutely sure that hiding your Prime is worth this?” The servo wrapped around his leg squeezed, making the metal creak. 

Bumblebee gritted his denta. Already, damage reports were flashing up in his HUD. And even with his helm spinning from getting thrown through multiple walls, he could tell that they were in a human office — it would be a while before anyone would be able to get up here, if they even could. These sorts of offices didn’t come with the freight elevators that Bulkhead alone would need to get up here.

But Prime. The ‘Con wanted Prime — wanted Optimus. Their Optimus, who that other ‘Con had already hurt, mucking around with his processor. Optimus, who’d looked so small in Bulkhead’s arms, his colours the only reassurance they had that he wasn’t offline.

He could still taste energon in his intake. Gathering it up with his glossa, he looked Blitzwing in the optics and spat the mouthful of liquid with as much contempt as he could summon. “Frag off,” he said, “you’ll never get your servos on him.”

Blitzwing didn’t flinch as the liquid hit his faceplates. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said, something dark coiling around his voice. His servo tightened around his leg, and a cruel smile spread across his faceplates, the bright pink mix of energon and lubricant emphasizing its curl. 

“We shall see how long that lasts.”

* * *

Ratchet was tired.

That was not unusual for him. As the only Autobot medic in thousands of lightyears, he had more than the average amount, and even back on Cybertron he had had more duties than hours in the day it had felt at times. Even just keeping a medbay clean and sterile took hours upon hours of cleaning that on Earth he couldn’t just shove off onto a drone. Put actually taking care of their squad’s various injuries and maintenance, keeping his records up to date and dealing with the Decepticons crawling out of the shadows at what felt like every turn and Ratchet was getting less recharge than was technically medically sound.

Now, on top of everything else, he was going to have to go through his own Prime’s processor, file by file, which was something that he had never had to do on his own. He had seen the sorts of damage Decepticons could do to a processor back during the war, yes, even helped with the poor victims’ treatments, but always as a part of a team. A processor was no simple thing, and if you didn’t have a specialized program that already had a map of the mech in question’s data paths — 

Well. You were stuck in the situation Ratchet found himself in; methodically going through every file in your patient’s helm one by one, a process that even if you were lucky and had the right mods installed could take months. Outside of memnosurgeons, no one was specialized enough in the sorts of deep dives that were needed to do so in any sane amount of time. There was no point; most Decepticon hacks were hurried, done on the battlefield, and most ticking time bombs sent back to their lines after a lengthy imprisonment were literal rather than metaphorical, despite the lecture he’d given them all.

It had just sent up red flags, hearing what that damned Decepticon had done to Optimus and then seeing him walking around like nothing was wrong. That wasn’t how the Decepticons worked. That wasn’t how hacking worked. That wasn’t how anything worked. 

So here he was, plugging into Optimus’ data ports and beginning his search. 

Underneath his servos, the mech grunted, wrinkling his nasal ridge. 

“Too rough?” Ratchet asked, checking his expression for pain.

Optimus shook his head. “No, just — nervous.”

Ratchet grimaced. “Can’t blame you for that,” he said, trying and failing to sound breezy. “If I were you I wouldn’t want to go through this either.”

Optimus chuckled bitterly. “Have I ever told you you have an interesting bedside manner, Ratchet?” His tone was actually light and breezy, but Ratchet could see the gleam of real fear in his optics. 

Ratchet touched his shoulder. “Hey,” he said, “don’t worry. I’ll find whatever they left in there and get it out. There’s nothing that the ‘Cons can do that I can’t fix.”

Optimus smiled weakly. “I know. Thank you, Ratchet.” Leaning back against the berth, he shut off his optics.

Ratchet gave the shoulder under his servos a gentle pat, and then got to work. What else could he say, after all?

Thankfully, it wasn’t hard to figure out where to start. The Decepticon hadn’t bothered to hid his tracks, clearly expecting to be able to bring Optimus wherever he was planning to go. Like muddy pede-prints on a clean med-bay floor, Ratchet could see the files that the Decepticon had pulled out and looked at in more detail. Automatically, he began scanning them as he followed the Decepticon’s path, looking for any viruses or trojans that could be used to harm the team. 

The Decepticon had made a frightening amount of progress in the few hours that he’d had Optimus; the pede-prints weaved in and out of files and programs in a way that would have seemed random to a less-experienced medic. To Ratchet’s eyes, however, it was concerning; like a heat-seeking missile, all of the files that the Decepticon had touched were memory files. 

Standard operating procedure for filing memory files had changed during the war; due to hacking, it was now the practice to randomize where they went in the processor as much as possible. Every processor handled the task differently, a bit of rarely-encouraged individuality within the Autobot Commonwealth. The Decepticon shouldn’t have been able to find these files so easily.

None of the files looked to have particularly valuable memories, thankfully, but considering that the Decepticon had stopped after apparently finding a particularly valuable one…

Ratchet had to force himself not to go too fast. To do his due diligence, and check over every file that the Decepticon had plundered, and not rush ahead to the final one, that had apparently been so interesting.

Though. Perhaps that was for the best. Because now that he was slowing down and paying attention to where the files were placed — 

Not a lot of Autobots placed their memory files among their core programs, let alone their spark-regulating ones. Let alone as many as Ratchet was seeing right now.

…Too many. Way too many. 

Ratchet bit in metal mesh inside of his cheek. The program file for spark regulation was quadruple the size it should be, it was so full of memory files. Some mechs did put memories near those programs but most medics advised against it; the last thing you wanted was risking lag time with your spark regulation. With this many files, and even more revealing themselves — Optimus’ spark should have dissipated underneath the strain. 

But it hadn’t. In fact, his medic uplink was saying that it fine, completely healthy, like there were no extra files there at all. 

Ratchet checked again. Maybe it was an error?

But no. The numbers were only going up and expanding, revealing themselves in an ever-expanding pattern of neat files and pathways, like they were supposed to be there.

And the last file that the Decepticon had accessed — the last one they had looked at — was one of those neat, well organized files where there should be no files. 

Could the files have been left by the Decepticon? Ratchet accessed the nearest one, looking for its uploading timestamp —

…What? Ratchet’s optics, which he had offlined when he started looking through Optimus’ processor, onlined abruptly as he read the date.

That impossible date, that was millions of years older than Optimus.

Ratchet knew all of the crew’s onlining dates; it was standard for medics to know that. According to all of their files, he was the oldest by far, followed by Prowl. All of the rest came online after the Tyrest Accords were signed. 

So why was this file about two and a half million years older than the war’s start?

* * *

Prowl’s spark was in his throat as he roared down the road, Bulkhead close behind him. Stupid, foolish — he was a cyberninja! How by the Allspark did he miss a Decepticon bearing down on them?! It wasn’t as if that engine was particularly subtle — 

No. He knew how. 

He’d gotten sloppy. Gotten lazy. And now Bumblebee would be paying the price.

They were barely able to keep Blitzwing in optic-range. Prowl could feel his engines complaining as he was forced to weave between cars, their drivers honking angrily at him until they realized that Bulkhead was just behind him and not stopping for anyone. Then they were too busy hastily pulling over to give the larger truck room to barrel past to honk. 

Like all flight-frames, Blitzwing had headed to the highest point in the area; they were in what the humans called a more ‘sub-urban’ area, with the buildings rarely above a few stories tall. The building by the edge of the lake was the biggest one around for more than a few kilometers, casting a large shadow across the houses nearby as it jabbed up into the sky like a knife, the jagged edges of its windows gleaming in the sun where they weren’t already shattered.

Captain Fanzone was already there with several police cars. He was shouting and gesturing at his people, forcing the gawkers back from the broken glass and metal littering the sidewalks. 

Good, Prowl thought as he sped up.

He shifted into his robot form just before he hit the edges of the crowd, twisting his body to keep from hitting anyone as he dove through the front doors of the building. Distantly, he noted that it was a mess, no doubt due to a hurried evacuation, but that was good too. It meant he didn’t have to be careful as he used his momentum to slam through the thick metal doors and into the elevator shaft. Sparks flew through the air as metal tore, but a Cybertronian frame was made of tougher stuff than any Earth metal. He was halfway up the building before the last spark hit the ground.

As he climbed, horrible thoughts swirled through Prowl’s processor. Blitzwing was more than twice Bumblebee’s size. If he got serious about hurting Bumblebee there would be very little the smaller mech would be able to do to stop him. 

No. He shook his head. No, if Blitzwing had meant to offline Bumblebee he no doubt would have just dropped him from the air. There was no need to throw him into a building. 

The logic brought him no comfort, however. There had been many reasons why he had run away from the conscriptions during the War, and a good chunk of them had revolved around how Decepticons treated their prisoners. Risking torture for a government that had never done anything for him after the destruction of Praxus was so far from appealing that it had made him nauseous. 

They had been lucky with Optimus, finding him in one piece. He had been hacked, certainly, and that was no small thing, but at least Prowl and the others hadn’t found him in a pile of his own limbs and energon. They might not be so lucky with Bumblebee — 

A sudden, sharp, and shrill scream nearly had him falling back down the shaft. Visions of energon-soaked floors roared to the forefront of Prowl’s processor.

The next thing he knew, he was prying open the doors that hid the shaft from human eyes, Bumblebee’s whimpers echoing through metal and bouncing through his audials.

Sunlight sprawled incongruously through the room as the doors finally yielded to his servos. Desks and other pieces of broken furniture lay scattered through the room, upturned and smoldering. A cell phone lay just a few steps from the elevator, its screen cracked, and just beyond it was the energon-soaked and still-twitching leg of Prowl’s friend.

There was the shriek of metal twisting, and an awful pop. Prowl snapped his head around, looking at the source.

Blitzwing, kneeling on the ground, was so large that he couldn’t see Bumblebee. Prowl could, however, see the still-sparking arm that Blitzwing dropped on the ground like trash.

“That’s three,” Blitzwing said in a sing-song voice. “Shall we go for all four?”

Prowl threw three cutting disks at once and lunged for the Decepticon. He nearly beat the disks there. 

Blitzwing roared as disks sank home in his neck and joints. Hitting his back Prowl gripped the barrels of his guns and used them to flip over the larger mech’s head and slam his pedes straight into his blue face as hard as he could. The Decepticon stumbled back, his servos flying up to his face, and Prowl turned towards Bumblebee, his spark whirring in its casing from worry.

It was worse than he thought. Bumblebee’s eyes were nearly white from the pain. Lying in an expanding pool of pink, he stared up at the ceiling, his intake open and only static coming out. His one remaining arm twitched spasmodically in the energon surrounding him like it was trying to grasp at something.

“YOU GLITCHED AUTOBOT!” Blitzwing roared from behind him. 

Prowl barely dodged the swipe aimed at him, lunging forward to scoop the smaller bot off of the ground and skidding towards a wall. Bouncing off of it, he tried to bolt towards the elevator shaft he’d come up through. 

“OH NO YOU DON’T!” 

Prowl was forced to fall on his back and skid across the floor as Blitzwing took another swipe at him and ripped right through the wall, sending drywall and concrete skidding across the floor. Twisting and holding Bumblebee to his chest he tried to right himself — 

Only for Blitzwing’s leg to slam into his side and send him through the half-destroyed wall and into another set of offices. Damage reports bloomed across his HUD as Bumblebee flew from his arms and into a set of desks, the static of his vocalizer clearing just long enough for him to let out a short scream. 

By the time Prowl had managed to prop himself up on one arm, his side cracked and dented, Blitzwing was already in the room with them and picking Bumblebee back up by his remaining arm.

“Damned Autobots,” he grumbled, “you must really be desperate to keep your little secret.” Swinging him back and forth, he seemed to ignore the way droplets of energon spattered across the floor and Prowl’s faceplate. “Is your Prime the only one? That would be unusual, you usually prefer multiple test subjects.”

Staring up at the Decepticon through a cracked visor, Prowl’s processor churned. His visor was shattered, Bumblebee’s energon was hot against his faceplates, and he could barely see through the damage reports, but Blitzwing’s Icy blue face was serious. Frantically he tried to follow what the Decepticon was saying. 

“Or is it more than just the Prime? Are the rest of you part of this?” He almost seemed to be musing rather than actually asking them. “If I cracked your processors open, would I find more of them?” He took Bumblebee by the neck and dropped the arm. With his newly-free hand he cupped the side of Bumblebee’s face, running a thumb along one of the sensory horns before trapping it between the thumb and a finger, his optics narrowing. 

Horror jolted down Prowl’s backstrut. “Stop!”

Sensory horns were far from uncommon among Autobots; just about everybot knew a mech with a set. Even he had known a few before his cyberninja training had begun. That was why he knew that that seemingly idle grip on one was in fact a nasty threat; being used for sensing as the name implied, they were delicate structures that would be agonizing to have injured and nearly impossible to repair on a backwater planet like Earth. Pretty as the place was, it wouldn’t have the manufacturing capabilities to fix such an organ. All Bumblebee would be able to do would lie on a berth and scream at every draft that blew across the raw circuits.

He couldn’t let that happen to him. 

Blitzwing’s optics were cold and dead and promising pain as he turned to look at him. “Oh?” His voice was as cold as his gaze. “You want me to stop?”

Prowl forced himself to his knees, horribly aware of how vulnerable he and Bee were. “You — you have questions,” he forced out. “If you explain yourself, maybe I can answer them.”

In Blitzwing’s hand, Bumblebee moaned weakly, static thick in his voice. Prowl couldn’t keep his optics from automatically turning towards him and flinched as Blitzwing raised an optical ridge, his grip tightening just a little. 

“He’s just a cadet,” Prowl continued, unable to keep his voice from shaking slightly. “No one tells him anything.”

Blitzwing sneered. “And they tell you?”

“I’m a cyberninja,” Prowl replied, not taking his eyes off of Bumblebee. “Of course they do.” 

Blitzwing tilted his head to the side, his gaze thoughtful. Turning fully towards Prowl, he held Bumblebee in front of him, still keeping his servos on his sensory horn. “Alright then. Why don’t we dive right in, then? What are you Autobots planning to do with Pax’s memories?”

Prowl hesitated, thinking furiously. What on Cybertron was a pax? He had to come up with a plausible lie — 

Bumblebee shrilled, nearly covering up the groan of his sensory horn threatening to crumple between Blitzwing’s servos.

“I don’t know!” The answer burst from Prowl’s throat without any input from him. “I don’t know, neither of us know — just let him go!”

Blitzwing sneered at him. “I thought that ‘they’ told you everything?” He twisted his fingers, and the horn came off.

Bumblebee’s screams would haunt Prowl until the day he offlined.   
Surging to his pedes Prowl just barely caught the younger mech as Blitzwing threw his frame at him, sending him flying back through the holes in the walls and across the floor, Prowl tucking his teammate into his arms and trying to protect him even a little from the debris until they finally slowed just a few feet from the hole leading outside, glass crunching against his frame. 

Before he could even think of getting up Blitzwing was on them again. This time his energon-slick hands were on Prowl, dragging him up up up into the air and dangling him out out out into the sun, trying desperately to keep his grip on Bumblebee as he faced the Decepticon, the grip tight around his throat and threatening to crush his vocalizer. People were screaming down below and there were more sirens but none of them were Ratchet’s or Optimus’ though he thought he could hear Bulkhead’s roars of horror. 

Looking at Blitzwing’s blue, unemotional face Prowl distantly realized that the Con hadn’t changed between personalities even once during this fight.

He was tossing Bumblebee’s horn up and down in his free servo like a toy as he examined Prowl, like a scientist looked at a particularly difficult problem. “Let’s try again,” he said calmly. “We already know your Prime has the memories in his head. All I want to know is why. Why are they there, and why are the Autobots experimenting with them now?”

The pressure on Prowl’s vocalizer was almost enough to keep him from answering. “I don’t —”

Blitzwing glared at him, his eyes nearly glowing with hatred. “The Pax’s memories!” His face trembled, an odd clicking noise coming from it. “Why does your Prime have those memories!?”

Gritting his own denta tight, Prowl choked out, “I’m telling the truth! None of know what you’re talking about! I don’t even know what a Pax is!”

Blitzwing’s head jerked back like Prowl had struck him. He bared his denta in a snarl, his face clicking even louder and trembling like he was just barely resisting changing it. “A Pax! My Pax!” The rage seemed to overwhelm him and his face blurred, revealing the black one. “Your Pax!” The face blurred again, and Prowl saw red. “ORION PAX!”

The sound of an energy weapon going off cut Blitzwing off from saying anything more. The smell of scorched metal filled the air.

Both of them looked down. 

Neither of them had been paying any attention to Bumblebee, injured as he was. That had been a mistake. With one arm remaining, he still had a weapon. And at this close a range, hanging almost directly in front of Blitzwing’s chest —

A red-ringed hole glowed in the Decepticon’s chassis, just a little bit off-center. 

Bumblebee, energon dripping from his intake, gurgled. “F-frag. You.”

And then they were falling, surrounded by the sound of screams. 


End file.
